We Promised We'd Get Out
by shrunkpunk
Summary: Ten years after high school Michael, Henrietta, and Firkle are busy living their separate lives. When Pete attempts suicide, Michael rushes back to South Park, hoping to set things right.
1. Chapter 1

**Preface**

_Accidents never happen when the room is empty _

—_Richard Siken_

**x.**

This was going to be the last Christmas he'd spend alone. That was what Pete kept telling himself in the days leading up to his suicide.

He'd strung Christmas lights around the ceiling inside his trailer thinking that, in a lot of ways, this had become his coffin a long time ago. Like a coffin, it was cold, about the same shape, and he was alone in it all the time. His mom had stolen twenty bucks from his wallet the night she'd taken off after his high school graduation and by default, left the trailer to him. It took him another year to admit to Henrietta that he'd been living alone all that time. She'd cornered him one night after he'd started accepting her mom's invitations to join her family for dinner. For a while he used the fact that her parents genuinely wished she was dating him instead of Damien to his advantage. That was before Henrietta's failed attempt as a photography major, before she left home for good.

Sometimes he had still felt the twinge of embarrassment about living in a trailer, and for a while he'd tried to spruce the place up. He'd bought a shower curtain with the map of the world at Walmart, wallpapered his room in photocopied pictures out of his music magazines of Lou Reed, Morrissey, and Peter Murphy, and constantly burned the sage incense Henrietta sent him in the mail. There was even a period of time where he started collecting furniture from the thrift store that he'd paint on the small patch of gravel outside. Once Firkle had requested a bookcase for his dorm room, and Pete painted it black before using different sponge prints to mimic the look of a spiral constellation on the side. Firkle kept making plans to drive back home to pick it up, that was two years ago now, but Pete had just recently started putting his own books on it.

He hadn't wanted to think about other people touching his books after he was gone. He'd mailed Henrietta his collection of zines, knowing they wouldn't accept things like that at the Salvation Army. He thought that maybe she'd get some ideas from them. She was a tattoo artist, and there were plenty of images to inspire new designs. Thinking about it now though, he realized she'd probably just think he had been too cheap to get her a real present.

He'd had the prescription for Ambien and Xanax for about a year now, and it'd been struggle to hold off taking them for a month just to have enough to take at once. But when the moment came, he'd put _Closer _on his beat-up record player, and taken enough of the pills to shut off his mind for good.

But even as he had laid there on his unmade bed he couldn't stop thinking. The record brought back a time when things felt, not _complete_ exactly, just fuller.

He had used to lay across Henrietta's bed like this as a teenager, Michael resting his head against the comforter, tapping his thin fingers on the ashtray to the music, leaning back sometimes to comment softly on the lyrics. Pete could still picture the way eyeliner would be smudged around Michael's brown eyes by the afternoon.

And that's when he'd turned his head into his pillow and vomited what felt like everything inside his body at once. On the way to the bathroom he had made the mistake of glancing at himself in the mirror above his dresser, and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. He was red and puffy and that's why he started crying so hard he was choking before he made his way to the bathroom. He had ended up sitting on his bathroom room until morning feeling like he had to puke, lightheaded and lost, staring up at the empty towel rack across from him.

Two nights later, after a double-shift at work, he was emptying the coffee canisters after close. He had worked for Mr. Tweak since graduation, after Tweak's son had gone off to college. Mr. Tweak had wanted a way to retire from actually running the café, so Pete had stepped up and took on the managerial role. Mr. Tweak spent his time traveling to the most generic tourist locations in the continental US, and every week Pete cut him a paycheck.

It wasn't a terrible job. It was the only job he'd ever had. He had looked at the fake tree in the corner of the café that he'd only put up with enthusiasm because he had thought that he wouldn't have to take it down. Behind him were the stupid names of coffee flavors he'd drawn on the chalk boards over the register, "Holly Jolly Java." People would throw an extra two bucks at a blend that was "seasonal." Soon he'd have to erase it and put up some special Valentine's Day blend.

But he hadn't wanted to think about any of that anymore. The day-to-day things that he did alone and unnoticed like pulling ornaments off a tree, like walking to the diner in the mornings, like cutting his stupid hair in the bathroom mirror. He hadn't wanted to make another plan, set another date. He had wanted everything to stop then. He didn't cry that time, as he walked behind the coffee bar and crushed up the pills and poured them into cup of water. It'd be quick this time, no time to think about anyone—no one was thinking about him.

His concoction seemed to have worked, he slumped against the counter watching the snowflakes build up on his windshield through the café window, the world became warmer and hazier. He had stretched his arms behind him to catch himself on the padded mat where the baristas stand. Even the stainless steel mini fridge behind his head wasn't cold, and when he blinked the world really did disappear in a thickness. He remembered thinking that there were grounds of coffee stuck in the tile floor, but that he didn't need to care about things like that anymore.

When the bells of the front door had jangled he wondered why the grim reaper couldn't walk through walls or appear at will. But someone had been calling his name, shrilly—and ruined everything; "Pete did you see my phone? Pete?" It was one big string of language before the teenage girl that worked for him part time stopped in front of his body and let out a strangled breath. She didn't even dial 911, she called her parents. It was all pretty fucking sad when he thought about it now.

When he had woken up with an IV in his arm the next day he couldn't understand why he felt so weak and why he was strapped to the bed. They'd had to pump his stomach, leaving him feeling like he could barely lift his head off the pillow. In the days that followed he was moved to the Behavioral Health wing of the hospital to be kept for a mandatory 72 hour hold, meaning they gave him counseling twice a day and kept him in a white room with a bed and little else. All he kept thinking was how the other patients in the wing were allowed to wear normal pajamas. But he didn't have anyone to bring him a change of clothes, all he had was his hospital gown and socks.

When he was told that he either had to be released into someone's care or he'd be sent to a drug rehabilitation clinic, he'd called Henrietta because there was no one else to call. He tried to explain it to her in a detached way, like maybe it had been a mistake. He hadn't meant to start crying on the phone to her, it was just something that happened because _she_ had gotten so upset.

After the phone call he sat on the edge of his hospital bed. His legs were frozen cold but he didn't want to get under the covers. It wasn't like he was sick. Maybe Henrietta would stay with him for a while. It might be hard for her to get a flight home because of the New Year. She'd probably at least spend the night, she might have to.

**Chapter One**

_I should of come to rescue you, I should have should have yes__  
><em>_What happened in the past ten years, I coulda guessed_

—_The Bullet & Big D, Bishop Allen_

**x. **

Flecks of unused salt hit against the sides of Michael's car as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. There was a brown paper bag on his passenger seat that he grabbed before slamming the car door shut. It was full of the comics that he'd bought in one of the shitty overpriced stores in the airport. It was an unnecessary and stupid thing to do, to act like the reason he was here was to deliver comic books. But he couldn't help clutching them to his side like a ticket in the door as he stubbed his finger in the security doorbell.

There was a camera pointed at him, screwed into the brick of the building like an afterthought. He wondered, while already knowing the answer was 'no,' if Pete could see him. A middle-aged women's voice demanded who he was and why he was here and he answered her before the latch of the door unlocked and he was allowed inside.

Inside the building, tan carpet was offset by a large wood-framed aquarium. On top of the aquarium were faded pamphlets each with their own bubble-lettered self-help numbers. Michael wondered where the fish in the aquarium thought they were. He'd only ever seen aquariums in Chinese food restaurants and waiting rooms. A receptionist looked away from the nurse she was talking to and he fought the urge to share the observation. Instead, he told them who he was there to see, while looking at the unlit artificial Christmas tree in the corner. There were even some fake wrapped presents underneath of it, probably empty surgical supply boxes. The nurse had him sign his name on a form and he had to ask her for the time before scribbling it under the appropriate column. His handwriting always felt like it was working towards something. He'd never lost the third-grade enthusiasm that someday it'd get better and he cringed down at it before passing the clipboard back to her.

After he got off the elevator they'd searched him, but he'd been expecting that. His cellphone was placed in a plastic bag with his name on it. It'd been the same thing his senior year of high school when Henrietta had scratched her wrist open with a broken mechanical pencil during Honors English. It was just a way to get out of gym class, but her parents kept her under observation for 24 hours.

A nurse at the reception desk on the Behavioral Health floor shot Michael a weak smile before guiding him over to a table on the edge of the room. His own legs felt too long as he sat tentatively one of the chairs. Like the table between them, it was bolted to the floor.

"I'm glad someone finally come for him," she said quietly. "We were expecting someone named Henry, but we'll release him into your care if you are able to continue to watch over him and keep the environment around his positive and encouraging."

There weren't any Christmas decorations on this floor, not even really shitty ones. The nurse continued rattling off details about what he should say and how to talk to Pete, and pushed a bunch of pamphlets into his hands before leading him over to Pete's room. He was glad that they were willing to release Pete to him, even at twenty-seven he still felt like he looked untrustworthy to adults. He'd tried to dress nice, and traded his striped t-shirt for one of the collared shirts he used to wear to the office before he started working from home.

He didn't know what to expect. Aside from scanning the occasional Facebook post, he hadn't been in touch with Pete in years. Even though his semester at college hadn't officially begun for another two and a half months Michael had left South Park just a week after he'd graduated high school. He'd filled his gas tank with graduation money and set a course for the east coast. He was a year ahead of Pete in school, so it made for the perfect excuse to leave him behind. There was gravity in the waiting, he'd explained to his friends on their final trip together to the diner; he might just get a job in that year, and he might sign a lease, or take out loans for community college. He might get completely stuck. Everyone had been satisfied with that answer.

And without his consent, almost ten years had passed.

When Henrietta had called him yesterday and asked him to go in her place, he'd taken the quickest flight out of Philadelphia. Before this moment his mind had been occupied with worrying about flight times and securing a rental car. But now everything was crashing down on him.

When the nurse stood up and motioned him over to the room, he shot up quickly, the comics making a comforting crinkling noise at his side.

Pete was sitting on the edge of the bed like you sit on the edge of a pool, trying to decide if it was too cold to jump in. His socks were a washed out black, but still looked too dark against the white sheets, pale floor tiles and walls. Michael didn't know what to expect, but the bizarre lack of medical equipment made it seem like this was just some really institutionalized hotel.

"What's going on?" Pete said as if Michael had interrupted something profound. Pete's hair was matted down and too long, the dye in his hair was offset by faded dark brown roots. He was wearing a hospital gown with tiny blue dots patterned across it, his legs sticking out from under it, pale and skinny. Michael wished he'd gotten the wrong room; that a seventeen-year old Pete was sitting cross-legged in the room across the hall with inch-high creepers and a fresh dye-job.

"Henrietta couldn't make it." Michael explained, trying to find all the authority and certainty that he'd cultivated through work and living alone these past years.

"What about Firkle?" His voice was tight and strained. Michael acted like he didn't notice. The room smelled like hot food on old plastic.

"Look, I'm here, I can get you discharged. Does it matter that's it's me?"

Michael followed Pete's gaze to the nurse waiting in the doorway, obviously ease dropping on the conversation, waiting to see if things were okay.

"No," Pete said flatly, "it doesn't matter."

Michael leaned around to look at the nurse and she smiled contented at him before walking back to the nurse's station.

"I brought you some comics." Michael sat the bag on the bed next to Pete then he took a seat on the chair by the door.

"I can't pay you for them." Pete mumbled, his head bent as he pulled a comic from the bag.

"It's fine."

So that's what ten years had done to them. Made money important. It didn't feel like so long ago when he'd throw a ten on the table every night to cover everyone's coffees. Or show up at school with a pack of cigarettes that he'd leave in Pete's locker.

He was glad he'd brought something though. The only thing in the room that look like it belonged to Pete was a beat-up library book balanced on the tray by his bed. It was a weird old pulp sci-fi book by an author that no doubt died decades ago.

"I'm only here until 4," Pete said, like the situation was all some illusion of seriousness. "I don't have insurance, they don't want me to stay. They only have to keep me for 72 hours."

It was hard to tell if Pete really thought that.

"That's not what your nurse said."

Pete turned to him with a look of disgust. "So haven't spoken to _me_ in ten fucking years but you can talk to my _nurses_? You're fucked up Michael, did I forget to tell you that?"

Michael looked down at the comics sitting on Pete's lap hoping to remind Pete of the nice thing he'd done.

"I can take you home, okay? But you'd be released into my care," Michael said.

"Okay," Pete threw a hand in the air dismissively, "whatever that means."

Michael took a breath. "I know this is…a little unexpected but, I'm the only one that could make it before they wanted to commit you to a drug rehab facility. If you want me to leave…" But Michael couldn't make himself say "I will" because he wouldn't. He wondered if Pete knew that.

Pete jumped off the bed and walked over to the window, staring out without saying anything. Michael was reminded briefly of the fish in the aquarium downstairs.

"Is that your car?"

Michael realized that his car was the only one in the visitor's parking on what was shaping up to be the most eventful New Year's Eve in his recent history.

"It's a rental." He suddenly felt bad that the rental car had to be brand new.

"They wouldn't let me have my hoodie back unless I let them cut the drawstring out of it," Pete was, walking closer to Michael now. Under the florescent lights, it was easy to see the effect of the psycho-tropic drugs he was being fed to keep him calm, the black of his pupils was pushing back the green. "Make sure they give it back to me."

Michael realized that without actually saying it, Pete was giving his consent to let him sign him out. He nodded and stood up, "I'll be back." Even after all this time, it was so easy to fall into the pattern of doing whatever Pete wanted. He stepped out of the room.

Before they officially let him sign Pete out of the hospital, a counselor who'd been working with him talked him through how to communicate with Pete for the next couple days. It was all bullshit anyway, but he found himself paying more attention to what they said then he'd planned.

The two of them walked out of the hospital together about an hour later. Pete had changed into the clothes he'd been brought in in; a black zipper-up hoodie over a t-shirt and jeans. He got into Michael's car and tossed the comics in the back.

"So is this what you're in town for?" he asked as they sat at the stop sign at the edge of the parking lot.

Michael couldn't tell if that was a joke. "Are you fucking with me?"

"No." Pete slouched down in the seat before sighing. "I don't know."

"The reason I'm in town is for you, obviously." Michael didn't mean it to sound as harsh as it came out. But Pete pressed his head against the cold glass window and shrugged his shoulders like it didn't matter to him either way.

"Are you taking me home?"

"Shouldn't I?" Michael said, but he was already on his way to the trailer park. Each of the street names became more familiar the closer he got to Pete's home, something about the familiarity put him on edge. He used to drive Pete home from school this way, the two of them would camp out in front of the TV to watch X-Files, or he'd just listen to Pete rant while he finished shading in his art homework. How had life somehow gone down hill from there?

He sometimes thought that it would be hard to imagine what his life would be like having never left South Park. But had _he_ really left? Was he really changed? It's not like his life now wasn't different. He was a graphic designer for several publications, which afforded him enough money to be comfortable and enough free time to feel like living was worthwhile.

"My mom took off after graduation," Pete said, probably to put Michael at ease. She hadn't been the easiest woman to get along with. "I guess Henrietta might have told you that. I know it's still the same trailer I grew up in, but I don't have to pay rent."

Michael wanted to tell Pete that any explanation was unnecessary, that all it was doing was making him feel like complete shit.

The trailer park almost seemed abandoned and Michael wondered if everyone had already started celebrating New Years by leaving for the bars. Frozen snow crunched under his boots as he stepped in Pete's old footprints. Maybe these would have still been here if he'd flown back here for a funeral. God, how pathetic would that have been—the last mark Pete left on the world, but he knew he would have cherished it.

"I'm not going to kill myself, so you can just fuck off now." Pete's head was bent as he unlocked the front door.

"I just want to catch up," Michael said, "can we just hang out—talk?"

Pete sighed but all the fight had gone out of him, or never even fully formed. "I'm just going to go to sleep." Michael followed him inside. Maybe an argument would have justified years of distance. But Pete's shoulders were slumped, defeated, as he walked towards the bedroom. "I couldn't fall asleep while I was in there, you know," he mumbled, "I feel dead."

He didn't seem to register the irony of the statement before he disappeared into his bedroom. Michael could hear sheets rustling as he stood in the living room. He decided to wait a few minutes before checking on him.

Inside Christmas lights were strung around the ceiling, still shining bright from whatever moment Pete had last plugged them in. The trailer wasn't too different from what Michael remembered from high school, and he didn't know if that should make him glad or not. Not that Pete's mom had been around all that much even then. There was a stack of second hand records sitting in a milk-crate next to the sofa and mismatched end-tables bookended an olive green rocking chair.

After several minutes of waiting he gingerly made his way to Pete's bedroom. Pete was laying on his side in his bed, several pillow and the comforter from the bed were strangely balled in the corner of the room. Pete had a thin sheet pull tightly around himself, his head resting on the mattress as he breathed evenly. Michael couldn't deny in this moment, that he still loved him, had probably always loved him all those years he so busily worked to forget him.

He turned away from the bedroom, feeling anxious and immensely tired at once. He needed to make some coffee and maybe eat something. But Pete's fridge was empty except for expired sandwiches from the café and a few unused condiments. Michael was at least able to put a pot of coffee on before sitting back on the sofa. He tried to focus on the crackling and bubbling sounds from the Mr. Coffee to hold onto consciousness. But the events of the last 24 hours were catching up with him. Yesterday he'd been in the middle of a project for his newest client when his cellphone went off with Henrietta's name popping up on the screen. It was unusual to get a call from her, it'd happened less and less in recent years. But it was something he always enjoyed, it was usually a summary of the latest ridiculous thing she had to tattoo on some pretentious asshole, and would lead swiftly into album recommendations. She was living in Vancouver in an apartment over the tattoo studio she co-owned with her fiancé.

"_Are you listening?" Henrietta had said on the phone, as Michael leaned a hand against the cool surface of his drawing board, his head bent down. "Like I said, I'd be there but it would take me another couple days to get this shit sorted out with my passport and in that time they'd want to admit him to a drug rehabilitation clinic. I didn't know who else to call." She'd just explained how they'd found Pete on the floor of the café where he worked. _

"_Maybe they should— put him in rehabilitation," Michael said, not didn't mean to come off as harsh as he sounded. But none of this had fully sunk in. Even now it felt like something that had happened to a character in a movie, not someone he had commiserated with for ten years of his life. _

"_Please, Michael, do you know what those places are like? I remember when Damien was admitted. It's like a prison. It'd just fuck with Pete more. I know he wouldn't have asked me to come unless he was scared."_

"_I'm sorry I don't know what to say—I wasn't expecting this, I'm in the middle of—"_

_"Yeah well I feel so fucking sorry to inconvenience you. You know Firkle doesn't have the money to suddenly buy an airline ticket."_

"_No, Henri, it's just. I don't know what to say, you know? I haven't talked to him in so many years. He won't want to see me."_

_There was a long pause._

"_Henri?"_

_Her breath hitched and he could tell she was crying away from the receiver. It made him feel terrible that somewhere in another time zone she had a hand over her mouth trying to stop him from hearing how upset he'd made her. _

"_We all just sort of left him there," she said through a sob. _

"_We all just lived our lives—" Michael had already walked through this conversation with his own internal guilt a long time ago. _

"_You loved him, you loved him and you left him because he couldn't shut up about Mike fucking Makowski." He wondered as she said it how she'd stopped herself saying this to him year after year, when it was bubbling across the line like venom now._

"_That's not true." Michael said quickly, looking around his suddenly obnoxiously intricately decorated apartment. His framed Eraserhead poster loomed over him next to his extensive film collection. _

"_Isn't it? Can you honestly say that your whole life hadn't been built into some sort of safe house for your feelings for Pete?"_

"_I don't want to talk to you about this," Michael said evenly._

"_Really? I think we should! Not for Pete—for you!"_

"_Just tell me where to go, okay? Henrietta? Okay I'll go?"_

He was still mouthing "okay" when he woke himself up and he lifted his head off of Pete's sofa. He was alone in the warped colored lights of the trailer, his pea-coat wrapped around his body like a strait-jacket, and he had to untwist his arms to get it re-situated. It was disorienting for a minute and he couldn't remember when or how old he was supposed to be. What was real, Henrietta on the phone or Henrietta rolling her eyes at him from across the room during study hall. He could hear the shower running in the bathroom and sat up quick, running a hand over his face. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air of the trailer as he raced back towards the bathroom, hitting his fist against the door.

"Jesus! What?" Pete yelled from the shower.

"Are you okay?" He was already twisting the doorknob, "can you unlock the door?"

"No, fuck off dude!"

"Pete—"

But the door swung open and a cloud of steam formed against the freezing air of the rest of the trailer. "I'm done anyway. God, I smelled like a hospital okay?" Pete muttered as he huffed past Michael with a towel wrapped around his waist. Michael stood in the hall for a second before retreating to the living room. It struck him in that moment how easy it would be for Pete to do what he'd done again. He couldn't be so careless, he couldn't let himself sleep without being sure that Pete was safe. It's just that it'd been a rough 24 hours. From the phone call to the cab to the airport and the flight that lasted for good knows how long to the drive from the airport. He made a mental note fully search the trailer for more pills before the day was through.

"So," Pete said, reappearing in the hallway, dressed in a fresh pair of black jeans and a grey flannel shirt pulled over a band tee. His hair was still wet and plastered against his cheeks. "How's that whole adult thing working out for _you_?"

Michael was taken aback for a second by his friend's casual tone. "You know…there's not gym class anymore."

"Yeah," Pete said, with a forced laugh as he walked over to the coffee maker and shut it off. When he walked back towards the living room Michael moved over on the sofa but Pete sat on the floor.

"So how are you feeling now?" Michael asked.

"This conversation. It isn't going to happen." By now the drugs seemed to release their clutch on him, and his eyes had returned to their typical mossy green. They were both still so young, but now Pete's jawline was more defined, his face thin and sharper than it'd been high school.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, wishing that the shower would have washed away the sickly grey color of Pete's skin.

"If you want to talk about 'our feelings' than let's start with you. Why the fuck did you stop talking to me after you left? You stopped answering my calls, you—"

"I was busy, in college, I had an internship and—"

"Oh okay." Pete leaned his head back against the floor, the TV remote was lying next to his ear and he pushed it aside. Outside, teenagers were revving the engine to their car in groaning intervals. In between, Michael could hear some girl was laughing the way that only drunk people can.


	2. Chapter 2

_Your head is nowhere safe tonight_

_I have no idea what to say tonight_

_We'll take off our boots and run ou__t_

_Curse and scream at the moon tonight_

—_Hey Ho, Hello Saferide_

**x.**

So Michael had been too busy for him. Pete knew about people being busy. Busy meant you didn't have time for things you used to have time for, for people you used to have time for. He'd just never learned how to be busy, maybe that had always been his problem.

To be honest, he couldn't actually wrap his mind around the fact that Michael wasn't too busy to be _here_ now. Maybe he had actually succeeded and this was some level of hell. Or heaven? Either way someone should come along and draw a chalk outline of him on the floor. He wouldn't even blink, just keep staring at the tightly knotted laces on Michael's Doc Martins.

Neither one of them had said anything for a while. So when Pete suggested they go somewhere, the sound of his own voice sounded too loud.

"Like where?" Michael asked.

"Food?"

The only place still open other than bars was the diner, and when that fact was brought up they both pretended that it didn't have any significance. Like the diner wasn't the last place they saw one another, wasn't some tomb to their friendship. It was ten by the time they made it there and images from Time Square were flashing on the TV hanging in the corner of the restaurant. Two waitresses' shared annoyed glances before one got out of the booth they were relaxing in to take their order.

Michael sat across from Pete at their usual booth. Pete wondered if he could still mentally even consider it "their" booth after all this time. Maybe there was some new group of kids that exchanged the banality of their parent's houses for stale coffee. He sipped his coffee for a moment and stared at his pale reflection in the diner window. He wished he'd known that Michael was coming, he would have dyed his hair—or _something_. He swiped a hand over his bangs, dragging them back over his eyes.

"Is it weird to be back here?" he asked after taking a bite of toast. Michael had ordered toast for him after he'd refused on the basis that his stomach still felt like someone had scrapped it from the inside. Now that he was chewing on the corner of it though, he did feel better. The food they'd served him in the hospital had been weird mixtures of vegetables in a paste, like baby food.

Michael shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. Pete could tell that he thought there was no right answer to that question. There probably wasn't.

"My step-mom still asks me to come home sometimes," Michael said finally. "As if I have anything to say to my dad. Much less anything to say to him that's worth traveling for."

"Yeah," Pete said, "I saw your dad walk past the café last week, I think he—" but he couldn't finish as the toast caught hard against the part of his throat that was still sore.

"Are you okay?"" Michael looked like he was fighting the urge to stand and drag him back to the hospital.

"I'm fine," Pete said defensively, his fingers rubbing at his neck. "I think they just stabbed my throat weird when they—you know," he motioned with his finger down his throat. He didn't exactly remember them stuffing the tube down his throat, maybe it'd come back to him. That would be a fun nightmare to look forward to.

"Guess they had more important things to worry about," Michael said bitterly. But what did Michael have to be bitter about? What difference did it make to him if Pete was watching movies alone in trailer or brewing cheap coffee at work or if he was a faded obituary?

"I guess?" he said. His fingers were gripping his mug, trying to will the warmth of the coffee into the rest of his body. Michael watched as his fingers flattened against the cheap mug. He wondered if it was weird for him to see his fingernails without chipped black nail polish. He never went a day without it in high school.

They sat in silence for a while. When he forced to undergo counseling at the hospital, they'd asked him what he wanted to happen next. If he would take some time off of work, or stay with relatives. As if either of those options were available to him. People are always assuming that you have someone who cares about you, someone to make things worthwhile. Too many people based their worldviews on sitcom families and are lucky enough to never learn any better. What they didn't understand was it wasn't just old people stuck in nursing homes that went through life without visits, without a loving family.

He tried not to think about that though. Michael was here anyway, for _some_ reason. Just like ten years ago, he was impossible to read when he didn't want his feelings known. Pete wished he could be like that. Maybe in another ten years.

"So, Michael. Let's catch up. That's what this is about?" It wasn't fair that Michael could look so put together in his pressed collared shirt and cuffed jeans. It was obvious his clothes were expensive, name brand even. And his haircut was impeccable, he could be someone off an album cover. It made Pete wish he'd done something better with his life, made it work somehow, so he could at the very least look put together and capable.

Michael was looking down at his empty coffee cup. "Why don't _you_ tell me about what's been going on?" His voice was low and calculated.

Pete wondered how much his counselor had said to Michael. If this was all some sort of patent psychiatric counseling Michael was forced to give him. And what sort of obligation was Michael really under to take care of him. What if he got up and sprinted towards the overpass a block away. What could Michael _really_ do if he wanted to jump? Or who knows if he'd even have to go that far, with so many drunks behind the wheel tonight, he was sure it wouldn't take much more than walking down the yellow line of any given road in South Park.

"Pete?" Michael was looking at him from across the table, his brown eyes looked tired. What had Henrietta had to say to him to guilt-trip him into this?

"Yeah, sorry. Nothing, nothing's been going on." If Michael wanted some big dramatic story, he was going to be disappointed. There wasn't anything to tell. No jilted loves or devastating blows. He worked forty hours a week and had gotten behind on his electric bill, wasn't that reason enough for some people? Wasn't it a good enough reason to just have had enough?

After high school he'd dated Mike Makowski until the distance of Mike being away at college had been too much. Looking back on it now, if felt like the entire relationship had been a sham from the beginning. Mike started dating girls after they broke up and he'd started drinking. He'd go to clubs in Denver with Firkle every weekend. Firkle was still in high school, so he'd still been forced to hang out with Pete then, unlike Henrietta and Michael who had long since escaped. He and Firkle would get shit-faced in the clubs screaming their lungs out when live bands played, and sit in Taco Bell parking lots messily eating burritos and talking about their skewed philosophy of the world until early morning. Firkle used to try and persuade Pete to apply to college or even move to Washington with him after he graduated. For a while they even had a plan of how to make it happen.

Everything changed one night when Firkle had had too much to drink and slammed his head on the stall door of a club bathroom. Pete had found him slumped over with blood pooling under his bangs. He'd stolen a stack of bar napkins to hold against Firkle's forehead, trying to sober up enough to get them out of the club before any attention made people realize how young Firkle was. He had tried to drive them home, he'd put all the windows down so the freezing night air would keep him focused. And he'd nearly made it all the way to his trailer before he'd crashed Firkle's car into a ditch.

They were both okay other than a couple bruises, but Firkle's car was too damaged to make it worth being repaired. After that night Firkle had stopped talking about Pete coming along with him. And Pete knew better than to mention it.

Eventually Firkle went away just like his other friends. Pete gave up drinking and instead started binge reading the warped paperbacks he could find in the sci fi section of the library. So that'd become his existence, working at the café, walking to the library, and reading in his trailer. It wasn't a terrible life. It just wasn't very much of one.

Not like Michael's life. From what Henrietta had told him, he had some fancy art job, rented a huge apartment in an old Victorian building, and hung out at trendy bars in the city.

"I want you to know that I am really sorry that we haven't seen each other in so long," Michael said.

"It's fine, there's not much to see…here I mean," Pete replied. He cringed inwardly, he wasn't trying to elicit sympathy. In fact, it had taken everything in him to not fall apart completely from the moment Michael walked into his hospital room.

"Hey, that's not—"

Pete waved his hand, "Yeah," he forced a smile, "I know, let's go somewhere else. Okay? Let's go see the Cow Drop? You shouldn't have your New Year's Eve ruined, right? You should experience all South Park has to offer." The last thing he needed was forcing Michael to assure him of anything. It would all be feigned. He already felt like some charity case, but it wasn't important to think about things like that now. Soon Michael would be gone, he told himself, and he could try again. Nothing tonight really mattered.

Pete had only ever gone once to the town's New Year's Eve celebration, the year after Firkle went away to college. He thought maybe he'd see someone he knew from high school, but he hadn't. Anyway, to anyone with half a brain, standing outside in the frozen night to watch a glowing cow be lowered to the ground was debasing.

Michael looked like he wanted to protest, but Pete was already throwing a couple ones onto the table. His hands felt shaky from the coffee which didn't make any sense because he'd only had one cup.

**xx. **

"Where are you going?" Michael called to Pete as he started walking across the parking lot, away from the car.

"We can walk to the town's square from here," Pete called over his shoulder as Michael ran to catch up. Michael had avoided the town's thrown-together New Year's Eve celebration his entire life, which was where the families with kids went while the rest of their relatives stayed home and drank themselves into a stupor. He didn't believe for a second that Pete really wanted to go—and he tried to come at the situation from ten different angles at once to understand the draw.

"We can watch Times Square on TV if you really want, it's been a long day and it's fucking freezing," Michael pulled his scarf further under his chin. Pete's coat was thin and worn and all he wanted to do was to wrap his arms around him and put him back in the car.

"No—we need to celebrate—bring in a new year." The wind was wiping Pete's hair against his cheeks, he almost looked feverish as he walked backwards through the empty parking spaces.

After Pete turned and walked purposefully away, Michael followed, resisting the urge to grab his friend by the back of the coat, and stuffed his hands in his pockets instead. He didn't want to upset him. And the square really was just a street away. "Okay just don't—just wait for me okay?" he called, hurrying to catch up with Pete.

The last New Year's Eve celebration that Michael had been to was three years ago. He'd gotten set up with a guy from work who supposedly had a crush on him. Which was strange because he tried to keep his socializing at work to a minimum. It was important that he had maximum time to do his work as efficiently as possible so he could get home and be in his own space again. But they'd ended up dating for a few months and for New Year's Eve Michael had agreed to go to a hipster bar downtown with him. When his date had wanted to go to a party he'd found out about, they started walking to Michael's car but it'd been towed. His date had asked Michael if he minded if he just got a ride with someone else. Michael had agreed and took a taxi to the impound lot. It wasn't exactly a New Year's Eve anyone would write a movie about.

Now in South Park, New Year's Eve wasn't shaping up to be too much better. He had a paranoid fear that at the optimal moment Pete was going to make a run for it out of his sight.

It wasn't long before they could see the edges of the crowd milling around the center of town. The fronts of the building were still so familiar, usually the settings of his dreams not somewhere he walked in reality anymore. There were vendors with hot dogs and French fries, the steam forming clouds in the air around them. They even had the high school band set up to play a rendition of _Auld Lang Syne_ for when the time was right. For now, country music was being blasted over the loudspeakers. At the top of the tallest part of the bank, a light up cow sparkled in the night. Several kids were standing under it posing for selfies.

"Do you still smoke?" Pete asked, shoving a cigarette between his lips. Michael shook his head. That was one the habits he'd painfully, yet gratefully, kicked after moving away. Pete rolled his eyes and blew the smoke over his shoulder.

"It's okay if you do," Michael said—"I don't care."

"I know," Pete mumbled. He turned his head to watch a vendor pass by, selling cheap glow-up toys out of a stolen shopping cart.

"I don't think you do know," Michael said, watching as Pete took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Why are you here Michael?" he snapped, his eyes flashing a mean green under the town's street lights.

Michael tried to catch any of the thoughts racing through his mind, things he'd always wanted to say, things he knew he shouldn't say, and stupid platitudes that were appropriate and wouldn't mean anything at all. "I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said flatly.

Pete rolled his eyes, "fucking tell me with a straight face that Henrietta didn't make you."

"Henrietta called me and told me what happened, but look, I _wanted_ to be here."

"What _happened_," Pete repeated, "yeah what _happened_. That's what I'd like to know."

"What?" Michael said, it was hard to know if Pete wasn't making sense or if he couldn't focus. People were turning to stare at them. It's not that he cared, he'd been stared at in this town for three quarters of his life. It's just that the last thing Pete needed right now was one of the ten cops supervising the festivities to throw them in the back of a police cruiser for causing a disturbance. "Look, come over here," he was motioning towards the gap in the crowd that led to an alley.

Pete looked like he wanted to argue, but Michael had had enough of allowing Pete free reign on the evening. He grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the crowd and towards the alley. When Michael let go Pete pulled his arm close to his chest like it had been burned, Michael tried not to notice.

"I'm sorry that I wasn't here sooner, I'm sorry that these are the circumstances. But seeing you now—

God you know, I just want to make sure you're okay."

"What difference does it make you? Because you had to sign some form at a hospital? I don't think anyone will hunt you down if I manage to get it right next time!"

"Don't say shit like that!" Michael could hear himself getting choked up. It was strange because he hadn't cried in years.

"Why should it bother you? You might as well have died yourself, for all I've seen of you," Pete's voice rose above the crowd near them.

"I had a lot of reasons to keep my distance!" Michael ran a hand over his face, his scarf suddenly feeling too tight around his neck. He resisted the urge to claw at it.

"The hell you did! Look, it's one thing to have left—but you stopped answering my phone calls—what the fuck was that about?"

"Because all you wanted to talk about was Mike fucking Makowski!" As much as Michael wanted to deflect all of this, to stay calm in the wake of Pete's accusations, all of his words were hitting some festering part of him, it was impossible not to cry out.

"So?

"So? I loved you! I loved you since I don't even know when—since always—and…you being with him was just too much for me."

"Well I wish you still did!" Pete yelled. For a moment they both stopped talking. The crowd had started counting down the final seconds of the year in unison. It was a surreal moment, hearing everyone chanting, while the weight of their exchange sunk in.

"I do," Michael said somewhere between "7" and "6." He reached a hand out for Pete and pulled him close. "I loved you and I still love you—" He couldn't stand the way Pete was looking at him so untrusting so he leaned down and kissed him the way he'd always wanted to.

"I loved you too," Pete said, pulling away and looking numb. "But Michael, you left me."

"I'm sorry, I fucked up, but Pete please—we can be together now." He was crying, feeling like the broken asphalt could crack apart at his feet and swallow Pete whole. "Okay?"

Pete nodded after a minute, looking unsure but coming back towards him. Michael wrapped his arms around him and leaned down so his lips could kiss Pete's temple. He was shaky and tired but Pete hugged him back and things didn't feel quite as bad.

Somewhere from the crowd the South Park marching band was playing _Auld Lang Syne_. He looked over at the way people all around them were kissing or clutching one another in the town square. When he turned back Pete's green eyes were scanning his face, and Michael knew he couldn't understand why he couldn't calm down, couldn't get a grip and stop crying.

But how could he explain the weight of wasted time, how close he'd come to losing Pete entirely, and how cold and isolated he'd felt the last ten years. He wanted to scream but he was crying instead, in public, and probably to someone in the crowd it might look like they were celebrating too.

* * *

><p>So I realize that this may look like the end of the fic, but there's actually more to come! It wasn't going to be that easy for Pete and Michael! Also, if you're enjoying this story, please leave a review, it'd mean a lot to me! Thanks for reading!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **So when I began writing this story I made a chart to help me keep everyone's timelines straight. It occurred to me that it might be interesting or useful for readers to reference. This site won't let me link it but if you go to my tumblr (in my Author profile) you'll see it!

* * *

><p><em>One time you were a glowing young ruffian<em>

_Oh my god, it was a million years ago_

_—Racing like a Pro, the National_

**x.**

The first morning they had woken up together Pete had listened to his neighbor's cars gearing up to leave for work. He had been glad that he had no where to go. He'd been pressed tightly against Michaels' shoulder in his bed, staring at his black curls flattened against the pillow. Michael hadn't asked about the balled up sheets in the corner of the room or the empty shelves where his 'zine collection used to live. Maybe it was a courtesy to him to ignore the facts of the situation, to pretend this was normal.

Even then, laying at Michael's side he didn't allow himself to become fully immersed in the situation. Not the way he wanted to be anyway. Just because they'd come together in a frantic moment after an exhausting day didn't change anything. This was an interlude until Michael would leave and Pete would feel the ache of being abandoned—again. He had believed Michael on New Year's Eve, that he loved him, that Michael had suffered being apart from him. But as the days passed, he began to talk himself out of it. There were so many explanations; pity, nostalgia, unfulfilled curiosity. Regardless, Michael hadn't made any mention of going back to Philly, and Pete hoped that if he stayed long enough—he'd just forget that he had another life somewhere else.

Ever since New Year's Eve they'd fallen into an easy pattern of kissing and touching that seemed so natural, like they'd always been at one another's sides. He didn't have to go into work so they spent every day together; Mr. Tweak had reworked the schedule to cover his shifts for the next two weeks. He wouldn't actually say the word's "suicide" or "attempt" but kept insisting that Pete "rest up" and "take it easy" during his time off. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but somehow that hadn't been it. It wasn't any different from the time he'd gotten bronchitis two winters ago—but now it meant he was able to focus all his time on Michael. Most mornings they walked hand-in-hand to the movie theaters in the mornings and Michael would buy them both a box of Junior Mints and a two cherry sodas. The theater played classic movies in the mornings so the only other people there were one or two lonely old retirees. During the day they talked a lot about things they used to do, things they used to think—and how those things had changed. They ate at Benny's for dinner, Michael constantly tried to convince Pete that there really wasn't better diner food on the east coast. And at night they'd lay on Pete's bed listening to _Coast to Coast AM_, and slowly allow themselves to get creeped out by stories of government cover-ups and the supernatural, drinking the leftover coffee Pete had brought home just before Christmas to stay up to discuss conspiracy theories in the cold trailer.

It was what had inspired their current midnight expedition to Stark's Pond. They we both sitting in Michael's rental car on the edge of the empty parking lot in front of the pond. It was the same spot they'd sat in years after, the car filled with smoke when Firkle had sworn he'd seen a UFO. It had prompted trips early in high school, armed a with a yard-sale telescope. The four of them used to pass the long hours of the night here, perched on the top of picnic tables—stubbing cigarettes into the decaying wood. They'd all swear that they wouldn't care if aliens did land, that maybe it'd shock everyone out of their fixation with Target credit cards and Monday night football.

Tonight there were barely any stars visible through the clouds, but at least from here the town's lights were behind them. Pete liked to imagine that the darkness placed them its pocket. Even if someone walked right past the car now they wouldn't see them. There was one streetlamp on the edge of the parking lot that was illuminating the lightly falling snow. Michael ran his finger over the condensation on his window creating a warped star shape.

"So what's your life like in Philly?" Pete asked. In spite of all they had shared the last couple days, most of their discussions focused on life as it was now. For all he knew, Michael could have a boyfriend or even a girlfriend back home, that this was some week-long fling that he'd feel guilty about after returning home. Pete told himself that he wouldn't be upset if that was the case.

"I mainly just work a lot," Michael said, "it's pretty dull."

"Yeah, but isn't your job artistic?" He didn't know how much to say, and that much information alone was embarrassing to reveal. He couldn't help it that Henrietta filled him in on Michael's life from time to time.

"It's mostly logos and graphics for advertising campaigns. Last month I designed a brochure for a retirement community." Michael laughed to himself, "it's a lot of sitting alone, hunched over a computer."

"Oh," Pete said. That wasn't exactly fitting the image he'd had of Michael's work. He'd been picturing sky-rise buildings with easels and art supplies cluttered around a workspace.

"I mean, it's not like I don't try to be artistic when I can. There are some good galleries downtown that serve cheap drinks."

Michael's idea of what 'cheap' drinks were was probably was vastly different from Pete's. He nodded though before glancing down at the gas station coffee he'd had Michael stop for on the way here. He wanted to open the door and throw it as far as he could into the dark hunk of trees. It was impossible to stop himself from doing stupid things like requesting shit coffee in front of Michael.

"Anyway, galleries are a good place to clear my head," he continued, staring up at the closed sunroof. They could see the sun mounting on top of them through the glass, and there was a claustrophobic feeling of being buried alive.

"Yeah." Pete mumbled, having no frame of reference. He was glad when Michael started a conversation about things they used to do again. The feelings surrounding all of those experiences were stale now and easy to talk about.

"So do you remember that one night when we passed around those bottles of Merlot that Henrietta had stolen from her mom?"

"Which time?" It seemed ridiciulous to him now how much shit Henrietta had gotten away with. Sometimes he wondered if her parents secretly sanctioned all her behavior.

"You know, when Henri stole Merlot from her mom and we had to drive out here to drink it? I think my parents had been having a Christmas party that night so my house was off-limits. I can't remember what else was going on. Normally one of our houses was always empty so we could get up to whatever we wanted—but not that night."

The memory started to come back to him. He thought about the way that the bottles clanged together in Henrietta's messenger bag on the way over and how she'd kept yelling at Michael to stop driving so erratically even though she ordinarily couldn't shut up about how he drove like an old man.

"Do you remember you and me trying to make snow angels?"

"What the fuck were we even thinking," Pete said, smiling at the thought of the teenage versions of themselves fumbling in the snow together, drunk and laughing and not even knowing that this was the best it was going to get. "I remember that you made me go first but snow was too deep and when I laid back I sunk under and snow caved in over my face. And you were trying to dig me out but Henrietta and Firkle were laughing their asses off."

Michael was smiling and nodding, "it looked like a snow angel had been slaughtered."

Pete remembered staggering back to Firkle's house, leaning against Michael because they'd all been too drunk to drive Henrietta's car home. Michael had promised to walk back in the morning with her and drive it home. He remembered that Michael didn't seem as drunk as he had, because every-time he'd weaved near an icy sewer drain, Michael had guided him back to safety. There had been snow down his boots and his skin was numb but it'd felt like they all knew something that the people in the houses they walked passed didn't. He still felt that way, but now it didn't make him feel superior, just lonelier.

"I think we should have a do over," Michael said. And Pete turned his head away from the plowed towers of snow lining the parking lot.

"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to sound casual but his fingers were gauging into his knees.

Michael shrugged and motioned towards the snow, "I think we should make snow angels tonight."

Pete laughed, but Michael was digging in the back seat, "I even brought a piece of the past," he pulled a bottle of wine from his bag. Pete couldn't remember if it was the same brand as that night, but he wouldn't doubt that Michael would have been meticulous enough to pay attention to details like that, even then.

Michael twisted off the cap and raised an eyebrow before taking a long sip. He offered the bottle to grabbed the bottle by the neck, and looked at the label, some Italian word in an overly-elaborate cursive font. "It doesn't seem so badass anymore." He was reminded of sneaking Firkle into bars after he was over twenty-one himself.

Michael nodded, "what if I told you that I broke into the Biggle's house and stole it?"

"It helps," Pete cocked the bottle back and took a sig.

Michael followed suit. A small line of the purple liquid trickled down his chin and he wiped it away with the fingers of his black gloves. He seemed almost too prepared for winter in his expensive coat with brassy buttons and the collar popped and matching gray scarf with small white polka dots. It looked like the winter outfit of a Nordstrom mannequin.

But after a couple more swigs, Pete wasn't worried about that anymore, Michael was Michael, with the same crooked sardonic smile and clouded eyes that wouldn't ever give too much away. When the bottle was empty, Michael pulled it from where it was wedged between Pete's legs, and screwed the lid back on before tossing it into the back seat.

"Let's go," he said.

Pete fumbled for the door handle in the dark and stepped out of the car, his feet crunching under the snow.

Michael came around the side of the car and grabbed Pete's arm. "What kind of shoes are those to wear in the dead of winter?" he mumbled as the snow crunched under Pete's black Vans knock-offs.

"I didn't know we'd be doing arctic es-spleration," Pete said, looking down at Michael's boots.

Michael shot him a smile, obviously pleased with the alcohol's effect.

"No my lips are numb from the weather!" he tried to explain, he really wasn't _that_ drunk, it was just a coincidence.

"Let me see," Michael said, learning down for a kiss. Pete could taste the wine and cold on Michael's lips. This was one of the small quiet moments when Pete forgot the dread that was always hanging from his neck.

They held hands as they walked together into the snowy field in front of the pond. The lake was frozen over, and under the dim light from the parking lot, he could make out the imprinted slices of ice skates.

"Here is as good a place as any," Michael announced, falling to his knees before laying back. Pete stared at him like he'd forgotten what he was doing. Michael really did look like an angel in the snow, his black coat splayed around him and his dark eyes wide and fixed on him through the night air.

"Come down here," Michael grabbed Pete's scarf from the ground and tugged.

Pete laid down on top of him, and the snow squished under Michael. His long bangs brushed against Michaels's forehead as their cold noses pressed together.

"Hi," Pete said, wondering if he was too heavy.

"I love you so much," Michael's arm wrapped around him, his dark eyelashes so close Pete could count them. "If anything ever happened to you, I would live my life knowing that a piece of me was gone."

Pete glanced down at the knot of Michael's scarf. It must have been a book he'd read in the past couple months that said that other people's feelings were a reflection of them, not a reflection of you. He tried to believe that now, it helped.

He leaned down and kissed Michael softly on the forehead. The world above them was spinning anyway and he ducked his head against Michael's shoulder.

"I want you to come back with me," Michael's voice vibrated softly through his chest.

Pete's chest felt tightened and he tried to mentally kick the weird warmth of alcohol in his brain telling him that this is what he wanted.

"To the car?" he faked a laugh and rolled off Michael and onto his back. This was his out to Michael, to keep the status quo and to keep kissing. The snow felt good against the back of his head, and he wondered if it'd be too strange if he pressed his face into it.

"No, Pete—" Michael said, his voice taking on a more serious tone now, "come back with me to Philly."

"You don't actually mean that," Pete said, even now with a strange joking tone. "You're drunk and there are stars and snow and we're just being stupid."

As if to prove it, he stood up and brushed the snow off his back.

Michael shot up after him, pieces of snow were still clinging to his curls. But Michael wasn't joking, he had that serious sort of look on his face that he reserved years ago for nights when Pete used to talk about running away.

"I bought us both a plane ticket for tomorrow. You shouldn't have to be in South Park anymore."

"Oh." Pete looked down at his shoes. They really weren't meant for snow. The canvas had soaked through and his left foot was completely numb.

"I was going to surprise you—I thought you'd be happy—or I don't know—I thought you might expect it," Michael said.

Pete wondered for a moment if he _should_ have expected this, was this the sort of thing a normal person would expect? It made him angry that Michael had managed to make him feel stupid and strange with six words.

"Why do you always think you can make decisions for both of us?" he mumbled, staring down at the two imprints in the ground, still not angels, just two hollows in the snow.

"What are you talking about?"

"In these past few days have you at any point stopped and thought about how if you would have sat me down and told me how you felt seven years ago I wouldn't have been so scared to tell you how I felt then. I just thought we had more time!"

Michael sighed and looked at the frozen pond and Pete was about to ask him what he was thinking before he blurted out, "What about Makowski though?"

"It was just a—a way to gauge how you'd feel. About me being gay. About me being with someone else." Pete got angrier with every word he spoke. It shouldn't matter what stupid things he had done at seventeen. Michael was twenty-seven and still hadn't learned how to communicate with him on the most basic levels.

"I don't know what to say," Michael said, he threw he hands at his sides and looked up at the sky for a moment before looking back at Pete, "I just didn't know. I had just gotten so good at pretending I didn't have feelings for you and it just got harder and harder. And one day it occurred to me that maybe I wouldn't have to anymore. I could go away to college and move on. But the second part of that plan never happened." He sighed and grabbed Pete's hand. "But we're here now. Let's get it right this time and leave together."

Pete could see their life in Philly play in the time it took for him to blink. Michael's artsy friends with real jobs patronizing him, him trying to get a job at a café in Philly but no one wanting to hire him in his shabby clothes, and him increasingly becoming a financial and emotional burden on Michael until the day that Michael had another surprise plane ticket for him—straight back here.

"No." Pete said.

"Are you serious?" Michael looked lost and let go of Pete's hand.

"Yes!" He looked down at his hand. "I don't know, can you just take me home right now?" The alcohol was burning in his stomach and he felt sick and like crying at once.

Michael looked like he wanted to say something more but nodded instead and started walking to the car.

The drive back was silent except for the empty wine bottle rolling back and forth at Pete's feet. The hurt look on Michael's face made him want to take it all back, say it was a bad joke and of course he'd come along. But not even the wine still coursing through his veins would allow him to make a decision that misjudged.

However alone he'd been these past few years. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was just shitty circumstances. He hadn't had enough money to pay for college, or even to move. If he had let South Park drag him down, well that's something he had done to himself. Still the facts were clear on one thing; Henrietta and Firkle had left South Park. Michael had left him.

**xx.**

By the time they got to the trailer neither one of them was clear-headed enough to notice that a light was on inside. Pete had barely pulled the screen door back before Henrietta swung open the front door and pulled him into a hug.

"Where have you two been? God I've been so worried!" She said, shooting Michael an exasperated look over Pete's shoulder. "Thank god I still had a key to your place. My parent's picked me up from the airport—I didn't know you two would be out-" she looked them both up and down, "drinking?"

"Just a glass of wine," Michael said, slinking in the door past them both.

"Oh Michael, thanks for coming," she said, pulling Pete over to the sofa with her. "I'm sorry about fucking up your work schedule."

Truth be told, Michael had been avoiding checking his cellphone these past couple days. But the string of calls from his project manager had forced him to pick up yesterday morning. He was past his deadline on two projects and needed to get home and turn them in as soon as possible. His manager had even sounded worried about him, asking him if everything was okay—telling him how this wasn't like him. It was embarrassing to make people worry. Why couldn't the world just stop, just this once.

He looked over at Pete now, staring blankly at Henrietta as she rattled off some story about her passport. Her tattooed arms were gesticulating as she told the story, and he tried and failed to catch Pete's gaze through them.

He felt like he didn't know where to stand or how to hold himself. The world had shifted and he didn't know his place in it anymore. Henrietta was here now to look after Pete and it had become suddenly clear that Pete didn't want him here. His hour as the protector and savior was at an end, maybe he should gracefully exit before he made a bigger ass of himself.

Behind him were the cupboards he'd filled with all of Pete's favorite foods this past week. Was that what he was good for, a splurge of money on boxes of macaroni and cheese and cherry coke to make up for years of abandonment? He needed to get out of the trailer, there just wasn't enough oxygen for more than two people. He grabbed a second bottle of wine that he'd left in the fridge and slid it into one of the pockets of his coat. The neck was sticking out as he headed towards the door but no one was looking at him.

"Where are you going?" Henrietta said, abruptly stopping mid-sentence. Michael held his phone up to his ear as if someone was on the other end, she rolled her eyes but easily believed him. After all, she had no reason to believe that he was anything more than beleaguered that he had to be here. She probably thought he was glad she had shown up to dismiss him.

He had lost all track of time—it was still dark out but sunrise couldn't be more than an hour away. He hadn't exactly warmed up from earlier, and his hair and clothes were damp. But walking along the salt laden sidewalks while taking swigs from the bottle of wine was strangely liberating. There were abandoned alleys he hadn't walked down in years and shortcuts he would have thought he'd forgotten. He replayed the conversation he'd just had with Pete over and over again as he walked. He wondered how fair it was to point out that Pete wasn't the only person who'd been alone all these years.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten drunk and he didn't know why it'd be so long. Everything felt numb from his eyes down, and when he'd emptied as much as the bottle as he possibly could he threw it against a dumpster and watched the glass explode. It satisfying in a way that screaming or crying could never be, and he wished he could do it again. He stomped on the bottom which hadn't come apart as much as he would have liked and stared at the shards gradually become covered in the lightly falling snow.

By the time he stumbled back to the trailer, everyone was asleep. Henrietta was curled up next to Pete in his bed with an arm thrown over him. Michael stood in the doorway for a second, and he was sure he saw Pete open his eyes before shutting them again, but it was dark and impossible to tell.

He felt his way along the hall back to the living room, back to the sofa—where he'd slept the first couple hours he'd been back in town. He looked at the plane tickets on his phone. He wasn't the type of person to do impulsive things. But when he did, they never worked out.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks for reading! This story hasn't gotten much feedback, but if you are enjoying it, please leave a review, it really encourages me! Thank you to those that have left feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

_I've been told that the tallest building in hell has an awesome view of the Emerald City_

—_the Tallest Building in Hell, Jared Mees and the Grown Children_

** x. **

Pete turned over in his bed and looked at Henrietta sleeping soundlessly next to him. They'd been up talking for hours and his throat felt sore from saying all the things that didn't really matter. He could tell that she had been holding herself back from asking anything that would upset him in any way. Part of him felt patronized but a larger part of him felt glad.

He'd heard Michael stumble back into the trailer about fifteen minutes ago. He wondered if he was finally wondering what he was doing here, why he'd bothered after all this time. Pete knew he couldn't live up to the memory of the antisocial, record obsessed teenager who seemed so clever when he broke rules. Now he was old and pathetic-one of those people that he used to feel sorry for: run down by time and always unconsciously working through the spider-web of "if only I'd done this" or "I could have done that." Michael needed to know that going to Philadelphia wouldn't change any of that inside of him. When he was younger he felt like the world wasn't yet his. And now that he was older he could see that it wasn't a matter of age or having more money-he was never going to feel welcome, he was never going to feel like the corner of any room wasn't the most comfortable space.

If Henrietta wasn't here-if Michael would just leave—he would end it all tonight. He thought about the empty bottle of pills that had rolled under the bed which was now useless to him. But there was the kitchen knife in the drawer by the sink he hadn't had the guts to use before. He tried to imagine what it'd be like to feel himself bleed out, he could almost feel the pain in his arms. He could almost feel his heart slowing down. He felt like if he didn't say anything that he might accidentally _will_ himself to die—wasn't that what happened to Heathcliff? The thought, surprisingly, scared him and he shifted in the bed. "Henri," he whispered-sticking his pointer finger into her shoulder. "I need to tell you something," his voice was barely a whisper, but Henrietta was already fully alert. She shifted onto her side and wedged a pillow under her head.

Pete thought he heard something and turned to the door of his bedroom but there was only empty air. She followed his gaze and shot him an apprehensive look. The lights from the fluorescent light from the street lamp outside was casting the same shadows around his room that it had for years. Henrietta's eyes looked especially round, like she was waiting for him to reveal that he was already dead. Maybe he was, maybe hell was just never realizing that you were already dead.

"So since Michael's been here," he said slowly, trying without success to think of a good way to explain everything at once, "we've been together."

"What—" She turned her head back towards the door again.

"Just listen," he said dragging his bangs behind his ear. He pulled a cover that had half-fallen onto the floor back over his shoulders. Sometimes things felt less important once they were said out loud, other times they seemed a thousand times worse. He could already tell that this was going to be one of those times.

Henrietta looked like it was physically paining her to remain silent.

"We both kind of confessed how we felt."

She sucked in a breath and he could feel her judgement fall over the room like a cloak. "This is the absolute most fucked up timing—"

"That's not what I wanted to tell you! Well it is, but," Pete looked over at the door, as if Michael might materialize like smoke in the doorway. "He bought me a plane-ticket back to Philly with him—to come live with him."

"And what did you say?"

"I said no! I mean I haven't even spoken to him in years and he expects me to move away with him? Just like that?"

The moment that Pete waited for Henrietta's reaction stretched on at an agonizing pace. He thought back to Michael's reaction at Stark's Pond—about how he should have expected Michael to get the tickets. Maybe he should have and now that much was obvious even to Henrietta. Maybe she thought he was beneath Michael—maybe not always, but now

"Okay," she said. She laid her hand over his and he knew that she was about to say something terrible. "Remember that time when we were kids and we had taken a stack of comics to read at Starks Pond in the middle of the summer? And Firkle was leaning over the dock to try and reach a duck. And I whispered in your ear to push him as a joke. But when you went to shove him—he realized what you were about to do and grabbed onto your collar. So you both ended up losing your balance and tumbling into the water—you on top of him, your elbow flying into his mouth. Do you remember how fucking terrible we both felt as he sat there afterwards, cupping his hand over his mouth to stop the bleeding, dripping water and blood all over his comics."

Pete thought about the way Firkle had looked at him on the sunny dock that day, as the pinkish watery blood pooled between his fingers. His blue eyes flashing a look of hurt, while he weakly told Michael—who run back to his car for a cigarette and had missed the whole thing—that it had been funny. But he had no idea what that had to do with his decision to let Michael leave without him now.

Henrietta pulled the cover tighter around her chin and stared at their hands, interlocked on the mattress. "Well, when you called me a couple days ago and told me where you were. Told me what you'd done, I felt like I had pushed you off that dock, that same guilt and anger amplified and directed at myself. I didn't feel the same inside my body anymore—like I couldn't sit still. Everywhere felt like a cage that kept me from making sure you were okay. And I know that all those feelings haven't just gone away for you and the things that drove you to do what you have done haven't changed."

She took a shaky breath and brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. He was afraid she was going to cry and he couldn't think of anything more soul crushing. He sat very still and listened to both of them breathe in the dark.

"So look," she said at last, "you don't have to go with _Michael_. I understand why you wouldn't, and really I don't think you should. But you just can't stay here."

Pete laid back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling, only half understanding what she was saying but agreeing nonetheless. "Yeah," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Okay."

* * *

><p><strong>9 Months Later<strong>

** xx. **

Pete stepped back from the freshly restocked shelf. The brown folded half-pound coffee bags were in neat lines on the silver shelf.

"Are you really working on my wedding day?" Henrietta said. She was standing in the doorway of her tattoo shop.

"Jesus," Pete said, whipping his head towards the back entrance. He was ready to admonish her from sneaking through the back curtain of the shop. But she was already in her dress, the plum bodice framed the distressed black lace of the skirt. Her hair pulled into a loose bun, with messy curls spilling out the sides. A choker of white pearls contrasted against her deep red lips.

"Oh Henri, you look so good," he rushed over to her. He had helped with her with wedding prep including everything from booking the cathedral to helping her decide on flowers—talking her out of black roses at the last minute.

"Well, I came down here to remind _you _to get ready—I can't have my best man standing next to me in skinny jeans and an apron."

Pete rolled his eyes and tossed his apron behind the counter. "It's not like it's going to take me long," he said. He'd already laid his tux out on his bed upstairs. The convenience of living above where he worked really was a novelty that he'd miss once he moved out. And even though Henrietta and her fiancé, Owen, had sworn that they wanted him to stay in the spare room he rented from them after the wedding, he knew it'd be nice for everyone to have their own space.

"Well let's get going—we have one hour until we're supposed to be at the church for pictures, and I want your hair more artfully disheveled than that. We're making memories, there's no room for flat hair."

Pete's hand shot up defensively to his hair and pushed his bangs away from his eyes. "Don't give my hair a complex," he mumbled. He followed her up the steps to the apartment over the shop. He'd been living with Henrietta since last January when she'd essentially kidnapped him, not taking "no really, I'm really fine" for an answer. She'd stayed in South Park long enough to help him facilitate selling his trailer to the first person interested. Then there had been the annoyingly long wait to getting a work visa. Once he'd packed everything he'd really cared about into a suitcase and hauled it into the trunk of Henrietta's car, it was over. He'd been surprised how easy all traces of him were erased from South Park. Somehow it'd almost felt like he expected South Park to be able to wave goodbye at the city limits. Something-anything quantifiable that would tell him that his absence would be felt. But a town can't feel anyone's absence, and it was only 9 months ago that he was convinced people wouldn't feel his.

The tattoo parlor itself had been converted from an old Victorian-style house. Pete had set up the café after his first month of boredom as the appointment scheduler at the shop. Henrietta and Owen, thought it'd be a great way to get more business into the shop, so he'd put the money from his trailer into buying all the essentials of the café; the stools, the espresso machine, the quirky light fixtures. It really felt like his own space, an extension of himself. He'd painted the walls red and decorated them in vintage sci-fi book cover prints that he'd had blown up at the copy shop downtown and framed.

"Just tell me you're not putting off getting ready because you're nervous about finally seeing Michael again," Henrietta said, following him into his room.

"No," Pete said slowly, straightening his iPod and phone into a line on his dresser. "It's just not all of us are going on a cruise to Europe tomorrow. I have to make sure things are ready to open tomorrow."

"You're so full of shit," Henrietta laughed, leaning in the doorway.

"Do you want me to get ready or not? I need to close the door you know."

Henrietta rolled her eyes but closed the door. Pete picked up the white collared shirt off the bed. He tried to think of the last occasion he'd had to get dressed up for. It was probably Firkle's high school graduation, but even then he'd only worn a button down from a thrift store and an old pair of black jeans. Now that things were going so well at the cafe he was finally able to afford new clothes, including the pair of grey buckled creepers he was wearing to the wedding. He'd also hired his first employee a month ago, so he had a chance to explore Vancouver, which mostly meant sitting by the water with a coffee and his notebook. And it was great to have Henrietta around, he'd almost forgotten how well she knew him; how she could always make him laugh when he was upset and what books to recommend to him.

But she was right, no amount of success could prepare him to see Michael today. After he left South Park, Michael had called him and apologized for everything that had happened during those two weeks. _It was a lapse in judgment brought on by the __stress of the situation_, he'd said. _But could they please please talk and try and be friends_, he'd said. Pete had agreed and they spoke on the phone a couple times a week. Mostly late at night as Pete was splayed across his bed, smiling into empty the room as he listened to the bitter but dry-humor sort of way Michael described the incompetence of his supervisor or the vapid conversations he'd overhear from the hipsters in the line at the café each morning. Michael was happy to listen to Pete's small milestones of building his business—from his first order of coffee beans to his first customer. Michael had even helped him to design the menus, the logo, and website for the café. In a lot of ways he was like a journal of the whole experience of starting up the café—and he felt comfortable confiding in Michael all the insecurities he had along the way. It almost felt like they knew each other better now than they had in high school, even though there were three thousand miles between them. The three hour time zone difference typically meant that Michael fell asleep with his phone pressed against his ear, Pete listening for the silence and then the quiet breaths before finally ending the call. He'd always think of those nights in his bedroom, Michael's dark curls spread out on his pillow, and how perfectly their bodies fit together.

He stared in the mirror over top of his dresser as he straightened his bow-tie and adjusted his suspenders. It was the same outfit the rest of Owen's groomsmen were wearing. They were all given black handkerchiefs for their front pockets, but his was purple, to symbolize that he was there for Henrietta.

He had to admit that he looked good, probably the best he had in years. His hair was freshly dyed vivid red and black contrasted one another in the way that he'd liked since he was a kid. He tilted the can of hairspray when someone knocked on his door.

He opened it, ready to tell Henrietta that he was perfectly capable of styling his own hair—but broke into a smile. Firkle was leaning against the door-frame in a striped collared shirt with a bright blue razor tie. It was strange to have to look up to Firkle, even after all these years. He threw an arm around Pete, pulling him into a hug.

"It's been too long man," Firkle said, "but look at you—still slick as hell."

"You too," Pete said. Firkle had taken most of his piercings out but his hair was still its typical inky black, but it was longer now, almost to his shoulders. His typical impish smile and icy blue eyes hadn't changed.

He had graduated college last spring, and was in his first semester of graduate school. Sometimes Pete wondered if he had had the means and the grades if that would have been a life he could have thrived in. But even as he thought that, the same tired dismissal of authority figures he'd had since third grade rebuffed the idea. No, he really was set on the track that made the most sense: he was his own boss, had a creative space for others to thrive in, and didn't worry about meeting someone's impossible and boundless standards.

A petite woman in a polka-dot dress and black cat-eye glasses was peaking at him over Firkle's shoulder. Firkle followed Pete's gaze and turned around to grab the woman's hand.

"Right, this is Tabby—my girlfriend," he said.

"Hey," Pete said, "I didn't know you had a girlfriend—"

"Well, I didn't know you were living with Henrietta," Firkle countered, as they walked down the hall towards the living room.

"Not for much longer," Pete said, "soon she'll be a married woman and I'll transfer my authority over to Owen."

Henrietta was standing in the living room of her apartment typing something into her phone and silently gave him the finger as Firkle laughed. He wondered how much she had told Firkle. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to break the news that he'd been held in a psych-ward last Christmas and she strong-armed him into coming here. Firkle was like their little brother, their kid almost. How could he explain to him that life had seemed that bad, that he had felt so alone, that he hadn't felt like they were good enough friends to ask for help.

"So how'd did you finally convince Pete to leave South Park?" Firkle asked. Pete's shoulders tensed and he walked over to a half-finished bottle of wine left-over from last night's rehearsal dinner.

"Well," she said as he poured himself a glass, "Owen and I had been talking about leasing the space upfront for a coffee shop and we thought it'd be the perfect fit." It was a pretty solid cover story that they'd told time and again to customers or the friends that Henrietta had made up here.

"Right," he confirmed, shooting Henrietta a look. It was hard to lie to Firkle, but the truth was so much worse. "Why search for the world's best barista, when she could just import me from Colorado?"

Firkle raised his eyebrow but said nothing. It was the same expression he used when the three of them used to sneak into clubs without him because he would have blown their cover and they'd lie and say they'd been at the diner.

"So where's Michael?" Firkle said finally. "It'll be so weird for us all to be in the same room again."

"His flight gets in an hour before the ceremony," Henrietta said. "So we'll have to hang out at the reception."

Pete felt uncomfortably hot thinking about it. It was one thing to talk on the phone every night, but another thing entirely to look Michael in the eye again. At least he'd have the space of the ceremony between the two of them for the first hour.

"Go smoke now," Henrietta, sensing his need for a cigarette before it'd fully formed. "We have to leave in a couple minutes and there's no way you're driving me to the church, making me smell like smoke."

"Jesus, what do you think of me—I wouldn't do that," Pete picked up the lighter on the counter before heading towards the door.

Henrietta grabbed him by the arm as he passed. "I think you're going to be the second most handsomest man at my wedding."

Pete thought of Michael for a moment before realizing she was talking about her fiancé. "I'll pretend to agree with that statement, but only because it's your wedding day."

"Thank you for defending my honor Peter," Firkle said straightening his tie, "as we all know-I've always been the looker of the group."

Henrietta laughed and wrapped an arm around both of them. "I'm glad you boys are both here today."

Pete slunk an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. Sometimes, more than other times the absence he almost created could be felt. A lot of things _almost_ happen. He hoped that Michael didn't think about last Christmas anymore. He wouldn't know it if he did, they never talked about it. But he didn't want to think of Michael, alone and far away being sad about that. Anyway, Michael wasn't far away today, just a few streets away and that gap was about to close too. He tried to focus on the ceremony but all he could think of was how bad the back of his neck was going to burn the whole time knowing that Michael was in the crowd.


End file.
